


Fragile: This End Up

by songlin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (also kind of), (kind of), Alpha John, Alpha/Omega, Humiliation, M/M, Mpreg, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnant Sex, Pregnant Sherlock, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 02:01:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5112197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/pseuds/songlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yes, John Watson is certainly desirous. Desire is not the problem. Self-control is the problem. Sherlock may not want to admit it, but he’s more fragile just now. He gets out of breath, he nearly doubles over with abrupt pains in his stomach and groin when he moves too quickly, and his hip joints have been almost constantly sore since he reached the third trimester.</p><p>(And if that makes John quietly, secretly excited, that’s all the more reason not to do this thing, however badly Sherlock wants.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragile: This End Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [annabagnell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabagnell/gifts).



> Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

John sets down his tea, blinking rapidly and cocking his head sideways in consideration. “Really?”

“Please,” Sherlock says, dropping his voice into that low, only-dogs-can-hear register that he knows bloody well makes John’s toes curl.

John eyes Sherlock doubtfully. Of particular interest is the rotund, distended, stretched-near-to-popping belly resting on Sherlock's lap.

"It's not that I don't _want_ to,” says John.

"Isn't it?" Sherlock spits.

Had he the capacity to do so, that would have been the moment at which Sherlock would have flounced away in a fit of pique. At present, though, it is a lucky moment indeed when Sherlock can rise unassisted from a seated position.

"No," John says emphatically.

In fact, he is doing his damnedest to keep his eyes off his husband and his softened curves: the small, handful-sized breasts, the almost-imperceptible new color in his cheeks, the shine to his hair, and—most prominently—the dramatic swell of his stomach where he is nurturing their child.

Yes, John Watson is certainly desirous. Desire is not the problem. Self-control is the problem. Sherlock may not want to admit it, but he’s more fragile just now. He gets out of breath, he nearly doubles over with abrupt pains in his stomach and groin when he moves too quickly, and his hip joints have been almost constantly sore since he reached the third trimester.

(And if that makes John quietly, secretly excited, that’s all the more reason  _not_  to do this thing, however badly Sherlock wants.)

But Sherlock, once his mind is set, is nigh impossible to dissuade. John can see the stubborn spark in his eyes. He fought in Afghanistan; he knows a lost cause when he saw one.

"If I do it, you promise afterwards you'll use the lotion? I'm not laundering your stomach-dandruff off the sheets."

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. He hates the way it feels, but he does get horribly itchy if he skips it for too long. "If you rub it in."

"Fair enough," John says, and saunters over from the kitchen to the sofa to give his husband a proper seeing-to.

Snogging is a logistical challenge when an extra twenty-five pounds are introduced, particularly when those twenty-five pounds keep kicking someone in the ribs. They work it out in the end, though it’s sure to prove too great a strain on John's shoulder eventually. John braces his hands on the sofa back on either side of Sherlock's head and kneels with his legs outside Sherlock's. It isn’t ideal, and John still feels like he’s squishing their firstborn a bit. But God, he can’t not touch this man.

Sherlock really is interested. It’s no time at all before he’s squeezing John’s waist and sighing into his mouth, the unsteady shifting of his hips taking on a rhythm and an intent.

“Want you to fuck me,” Sherlock breathes. The subsonic purr of his voice makes the hairs on the back of John’s neck stand up.

“Not here. No space.”

Sherlock makes a frustrated sound, but doesn’t argue. “Fine, bed. Help me up. And don’t laugh.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

John steps back, takes Sherlock’s hands, and hauls him to his feet. Sherlock grunts endearingly at the effort.

“Don't laugh!” he says again, with a sour scowl.

“I told you,” says John, tugging him closer, “hadn't even crossed my mind.”

The kiss is meant to be reassuring, but it turns slow and languid and promising. John gets a good hold on Sherlock’s bum, despite the obstruction. Until relatively recently, this would have been where John brought their groins into contact and rocked them together until Sherlock was speechless with want, but current circumstances are preventing full-frontal direct contact. Sherlock seems to pick up exactly what John is doing, because he squirms restlessly against him, back and forth between John’s hands and John’s body. Sherlock curls his fingers in John’s hair, which triggers a tingling sensation that trickles down the back of his neck and down his spine.

“John,” Sherlock whines, and ooh, that's about as much as John can take.

He squeezes Sherlock’s arse one last time, just to make him gasp. “Bed.”

John sheds his clothes down the hall. Sherlock, though, waits until they get to the bed before he pulls his worn t-shirt up and over his head. The elastic of his pajama bottoms is slung low, below his gravid stomach. John eyes it and licks his lips.

“You're too kind,” Sherlock says drily.

“Not at all,” says John. “Mind if I…?”

“Please.”

John cups both his hands over Sherlock’s belly, then slides them back, around his sides to his back and then down, fingers dipping into the waistband, moving further down, catching it with his thumbs, and peeling the whole thing down, down, down…

Sherlock steps out of his pajamas with a quiet sigh of relief.

“Now,” he says, “about that bed.”

Sherlock, for the first time in his life, has the easy weight advantage on John. It looks like a simple matter to push John back onto the bed, though it appears considerably more complicated climbing up after him.

“It’s been so long.”

John nods. He's quite aware.

“I’ve missed it so much. Missed you.” Sherlock straddles him. He is hard and leaking, his red cock pressed up against the underside of his swollen stomach. He rises up on his knees a little, reaches behind himself, and guides John’s erection to line up against his hole. John slams his head back into the pillows.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans. “You’re so wet. Never felt you like this outside heat.”

“I’ve been like this for hours,” Sherlock whispers. Fuck, they’ve barely even started and his voice is already going. “It’s—hormones, or _sentiment,_ or something.”

He looks genuinely anguished. John’s throat swells up with something more than lust. He squeezes Sherlock’s breast in a vain effort to release some of the excess emotion, which makes Sherlock whimper. His hole twitches around the head of John’s cock. John gasps and feels another surge of emotion, this one almost terrifying in its volume.

“I love you,” John nearly says, but he will wait until later. Instead, he says, “Come on, baby. Yeah, you beautiful thing,” and Sherlock pierces himself on John’s cock and sinks down.

John groans full-throatedly at the blissful feeling of enclosure, and Sherlock makes a sound like the air has been pressed from his lungs. John rubs his hands up and down Sherlock’s trembling thighs.

Checking in, checking in on the pregnant husband. Very important. Self-control. “How are you?” John asks.

“Mm,” says Sherlock, from under heavy eyelids.

“Want to move?”

“God, yes.”

Obviously meaning to start a fast and punishing pace, Sherlock rocks up—comes back down with a wince. John catches him by the hips.

"Okay?"

Sherlock bites his lip. "I—yes."

John raises his eyebrows.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Fine; I had a—pain.”

“Oh! Oh, hell, not a contra—”

“No!” Sherlock flaps a dismissive hand and scowls. “Sudden movements can trigger an abrupt tightening of the ligament surrounding my uterus, as opposed to the normal—”

“I did actually go to medical school.”

“It’s not _unbearable_ ,” Sherlock says, looking irritated. “Just ignore it like I do.”

“You do _not_ ignore it,” John replies drily. “I’ve watched you ‘ignore it’ on the floor of the kitchen, and tipping over at crime scenes, and in the bath—”

“Everyone takes baths.”

“Not for three hours.”

“You complain about your joints all the time!”

“My joints are sore because I’m old and got shot. Your joints are sore because your system is flooded with hormones and they’re relaxing your pelvis out of alignment with itself until your bones grind up against each other.”

Sherlock looks _murderous_.

“Grinding. Like scraping a rock against pavement,” John adds, for illustrative purposes.

It’s becoming increasingly apparent that while sex may be just doable from a purely logistical perspective, there is every possibility that this specific position is a Very Bad Idea. Especially considering the problems Sherlock already has with overexertion and round ligament pain and pelvic girdle pain and, generally, pain.

John opens his mouth to say something like, “Why don’t you get on your side?” But Sherlock stops him up short by snapping, “No! Here, like _this_.”

He rolls his hips and drags John's hands up his body, one to cup his eminently squeezable tit and the other to splay over the full curve of his belly. John's words break off into a groan. Sherlock responds in kind, and his smooth pace takes on a steady rhythm.

Sherlock lets his eyes drift shut, tips his head back, and sighs in utter bliss. Sherlock Holmes looking like _that_ —like he's sinking into a hot bath, or letting himself sleep after days of keeping himself awake—is the most utterly intoxicatingly sight John can imagine.

Sherlock leans back a little, and something clearly changes. He breathes out a breathless, "ah," and moves ever faster. John is clinging to him by the ribcage. (His waist, of course, is impossible to hold like he usually would.)

John puts his hands over Sherlock’s ribs, just above where his stomach begins to round out into a gravid curve. As Sherlock inhales, John can feel—God, and _see_ —the way his ribcage lifts and spreads, stretching and straining against the taut, firm curve of his belly. A powerful surge of lust spreads red over John’s vision. He plants his feet, draws up his knees, and bucks up just as Sherlock plunges down. Sherlock’s back arches at the sudden stab of sensation, which in turn increases the angle of penetration and lets John drive that much deeper. He cries out, too, and it may be from more pain than pleasure but oh, fuck, John is already past the point where he’s willing to put his moral code above Sherlock’s desires to throw caution to the wind.

And in his heart of hearts, he knows that’s exactly why he was reluctant in the first place. It’s not just that Sherlock is beautiful and that he’s carrying their child and that John loves him. When John has him like this, he is forced to admit that he is very, very aroused by Sherlock’s _discomfort_.

Sherlock is so vulnerable right now, and so very helpless. It makes a small, dark, sick thing deep inside John feel unspeakably powerful to see Sherlock Holmes reduced to this, and to know that he is the only one permitted to see it.

Above all, Sherlock is in pain, and he is in pain because of this incredible thing he is doing for them all. And despite all that, he still wants John so badly he is willing to hurt even more for it. John loves this man so much he could die of it.

A drop of clear liquid leaks from the slit of Sherlock’s cock, and it makes John’s mouth water.

“Gorgeous,” John snarls, “so fucking gorgeous for me.”

———

Sherlock stays still for a moment and savors the feeling of being full, of brimming with so much pleasure and pain and _John_ that he can feel it all the way in his clenched teeth. It doesn’t last long before the insatiable itch flares up again, and he pushes himself up on his overworked legs and resumes his pace.

It isn’t enough. His muscles are burning and his joints ache, but he doesn’t care. His cock rubs deliciously between his rounded stomach and John’s (hatefully) flat abdominals, and even that doesn’t satisfy. He whines, baring his teeth and groping at his own chest to cup handfuls of unfamiliar flesh and squeeze. He scrapes his thumbnails over and pinches at and plucks his round, dark nipples, chasing the added spark of sensation that will drive him over the edge. More than anything, Sherlock wants to _come_ , and yet he knows that he’s holding back, because once he does, it will be over. Still, it’s becoming increasingly clear that he can’t maintain this pace for much longer.

A damp curl slips forward and sticks to Sherlock’s forehead. John watches it fall and hisses through his teeth.

“John,” Sherlock says. He should be _humiliated_ at the pleading note in his voice, but he’s not, not even a little bit. “John, please.”

“Jesus,” John spits. “Yeah, so good, you are so _fucking_ good.”

He reaches up, bats Sherlock’s hand out of the way, pinches his nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and tugs _hard_. Sherlock gasps, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath as he crests the last wave into orgasm. His whole world narrows to the acute, exquisite sensation in the peak of his chest and then bursts outwards, encompassing the tight, hot pressure and friction in his pelvis and the roiling movement in his gut as his child—John’s child, their child—fidgets and stirs in response to her father’s heart rate and exertion and (Sherlock likes to think, in the deepest throes of sentimentality) the volume of his love for her, and for John, and for them. He comes, shuddering and bucking, with a deep, guttural cry. John holds Sherlock’s hips so that he doesn’t dislodge himself and keeps up with long, deep pushes of his cock.

Sherlock relaxes slowly, and only partway. The insatiable desperation has abated, but there’s still a lazy wanting in his veins, syrupy and thick, not demanding attention so much as it is intrigued by the promise of it.

Sherlock’s legs, though, are screaming for a break. John sees him wince and understands.

“Off and on your side,” he orders. His voice is rough and harsh.

Sherlock tries, but when he shifts his weight to his left leg, it trembles and collapses underneath him.

John catches him before he falls over and lowers him onto his side. Sherlock’s cheeks burn with embarrassment, and somehow, John detects that too. He kisses the back of Sherlock’s head.

“Fuck, that’s gorgeous,” he growls.

Sherlock lets out an interrogative, “hm?”

“You, so—full. Of _me_.” He cradles Sherlock’s stomach possessively. “I did that.”

“Ruined my body,” Sherlock retorts, and it’s both an accusation and a revelation.

“Yeah,” John says, not sounding the least bit ashamed. He caresses Sherlock’s belly, skating his fingertips over the dark grooves of his stretch marks, flattening his palm over the skin so stretched that it shines. “I have completely ruined you, haven’t I?”

“Mm.” Sherlock stirs and pushes back into John’s erection. Fuck it. If his body is to be destroyed, he might as well let his husband get off to it. “John, hold my leg up. I can’t lift it.”

It’s true, and it also punches a groan from John’s throat. He does it, lifts Sherlock’s leg and raises it so John can push his cock smoothly in. Sherlock whimpers, both from the pleasure and because his back and entire pelvis really does hurt. Still, he has to admit that there is something highly appealing about John’s obvious relish at his discomfort.

At Sherlock’s discomfort, yes, but also at his ungainliness. He is fat and bloated and cumbersome, _and John still wants him._ It’s staggering. And to think, Sherlock was once afraid that John would _leave_ him! John Watson is _his_ , body and mind. Sherlock would do anything for him, as he would do anything for Sherlock. Sherlock will hurt, and he will love it, because he loves John, and because he can and will push past it if that’s what it takes to feel this good.

“John,” Sherlock whines, “careful, be careful. I won’t be able to get up tomorrow.” He’s not entirely sure how much he’s playacting at this point, and he’s already almost past the point of caring.

John growls and slams in to make Sherlock cry out. “Good,” he snarls. “Keep you here. Keep you. You’re _mine_.”

Oh, fuck. Sherlock’s prick, already starting to harden again, painfully plumps up further. His heart pounds in his throat and he moans from the pressure of it.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Keep me. Stuff me up until I’m too sore and swollen to move. Keep fucking me so I can’t ever leave.”

John makes a sound like he’s dying and wants nothing more than to do just that, just like this. He fucks Sherlock with ferocity and single-mindedness and his teeth in Sherlock's shoulder.

Through the haze of pain and ecstasy, Sherlock hears himself letting out brief little cries every time John stabs his hips forward. It jolts his pelvis and strains his already-overworked back, and it _hurts_ —but God, it feels far, far too good to stop. He whines through his teeth.

"John..."

John moves faster, somehow, where in the world did he find a way to go faster and harder and deeper all at once? Sherlock wails at the onslaught. He takes hold of his prick, still slick from his first orgasm.

"Yeah, you better come," John growls. "Show me how much you want this. Show me you love it."

"Love it." So hard to form the words, but for John, he can. "Love it, love—love you—"

With a gasp, Sherlock drops into an orgasm that makes every last part of his body convulse violently with sensation. John shouts in triumph, and his rhythm turns into a jagged staccato. The warm pulsing deep in Sherlock’s body is a luscious denouement to his climax.

It’s a good thing he’s on his side, because Sherlock may actually have blacked out for a moment. Just a moment, though. And really, he could just as easily have been drifting for reasons unrelated to his consciousness. Yes, that must be what is happening.

The next moment he is aware of, John is rubbing lotion into his stomach, and his hips, groin, and lower back are in almost unbelievable amounts of pain.

“So,” John says conversationally—and what an utter _bastard_ , how dare he be conversational so soon? “Less randy yet?”

Sherlock rifles through a few potential acerbic rejoinders, and discards them all in favor of grunting noncommittally.

“Yes, I thought so.”

“Paracetamol,” Sherlock croaks.

“Or what?”

Sherlock grunts again, and John snickers.

As his husband moisturizes his stomach and fetches the paracetamol and cleans him up with painstaking attentiveness, Sherlock privately meditates upon the universe of possibilities open to him for the next few weeks. He’ll not be up for another go for at least two days, to be sure. But imagine everything he can watch John do while he rests up in the meantime. Sherlock, sprawled on the sofa while John eats him out. John, rubbing himself off on Sherlock’s belly, all the time being so, so careful not to jostle him too badly. Sherlock, propping himself up on pillows so he can sit up comfortably while John fucks his face.

“Sixty-nine,” Sherlock mutters.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock gestures vaguely towards the door. “Get the lights and come back to bed with me.”

Sherlock’s thoughts peter out into quiet as the pain fades to a dull, ignorable ache, his husband warm against his back and their daughter warm inside of him.

 _Overall_ , he thinks, as he slips into sleep, _entirely worth it._


End file.
